Fired
by DarkAngel0410
Summary: What happened after RAW went off the air 6/27/11. Slash.


**Story Title:** Fired

**Story Type: **Slash

**Characters: **CM Punk, mentions of Colt Cabana, Del Rio

**Pairings: **Punk/Colt

**Rating: **PG-13/NC-17

**Series: **None

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. If they were, I'd be an exhausted but very happy fangirl; and I wouldn't even have the energy to type this. Since this is obviously not the case, you know they belong to ROH/WWE and themselves. And, as was proved Monday night beyond a shadow of a doubt, to each other.

**Warnings: **Slash, language

**A/N: **After Mon. night, I am in awe. Seriously. That was the best promo I've ever seen in my whole fucken life and I've been watching wrestling since I was nine or ten. It reconfirmed my love for Punk and the fact that even if he's a dickhead to everyone else on the planet, he loves his bff. Work or shoot, it was fucken awesome. If WWE lets him walk after that, they're dumber then I thought. Personally, I want him to go back to ROH -and Colt, of course- since I think he'd be better off there; I mean, they'd give him a half way decent push at least and after Mon., they'd fucken murder Vince to get him back. I guess we'll have to wait and see what happens. Anyways, here's the story, peeps. Enjoy.

Punk walked offstage after his shoot promo, every nerve in his body ready for a fight. He wasn't disappointed.

As soon as he was clear of the cameras, he got pulled into the creative office. Punk walked down the hall, briefly amused by the looks on everyone's faces; they ranged from sheer disbelief to anger to giddiness -although, that one was just Del Rio who was probably thrilled because he thought Punk getting fired would push him up the card.

It was fitting, he supposed, that only time in his life he'd ever taken a walk of shame was now, when he was at work. Not that he was ever ashamed of anything he said or did, but as far as metaphors went, it was the closest one he could find to fit this situation.

Punk sat in the chair across from John and made sure his face looked as bored as he felt. He was done listening to anything anyone from WWE had to say to him. For almost six years, he had given everything he had to the company, he had chased rings and goals until it made him dizzy. He went out, day after day, had the best matches in the company -at least until Dragon had signed; Punk could readily admit that Dragon was one the few wrestlers here who was as good as he himself was- and still he barely got a push.

He had sacrificed everything to work here -everything except for Colt. Punk smirked at the thought of what Colt's face had looked like when he had mentioned him on air. He hadn't said anything about it to him when Colt had called earlier; he knew without checking that he he probably had at least three messages from Colt alone on his phone.

Punk had sacrificed a lot for wrestling and all of it willingly. The feel of the ropes on his back, the noise of the crowd, the rush of hitting that one move perfectly, the sure knowledge that he was doing what he loved, what he was meant to do, there was nothing that could compare to it.

There was only one thing that could even hope to come close to his love of wrestling and that was Colt. The other man had been there for him since the beginning; they were bonded together by blood and sweat and tears and time. Colt had become so ingrained in his life, so intertwined with his love for wrestling, that he couldn't separate them. And the truth was he had no desire to.

Punk didn't mess around when it came to anything and he didn't give in easily, either. His intensity in ring was pretty much normal for him. He didn't consider himself a romantic by any stretch of imagination, but once he loved someone it was for forever. From the time he had first talked to Colt, he had been hooked. No matter how much he fought -and he had fought, Punk remembered with amusement, like his life had depended on it- it only got worse and he had finally conceded defeat. It was the only time in his life Punk had been happy to lose.

The truth was if Punk thought that working here had damaged his relationship with Colt, he would have quit a long time ago. But Colt understood the business -he was a wrestler, after all; Punk knew Colt loved wresting as much as he did, and he never held any of the crap that came along with wrestling for the WWE against Punk.

"Damn it, Punk, are you even listening?" John demanded angrily. "Vince is going to be calling in a few minutes and -"

"Jesus, does it look like I fucken care?" Punk scoffed, leaning forward. "I told Vince I was done, and I meant it.

"I had an epiphany this morning, John. Any time I'm on the mic, I can say what I want to. I don't have to censor myself and be kid friendly. I don't have to downgrade my talent any more to make some FCW football playing moron look like he knows what he's doing. I can just do my job and do what I love, any way I want to.

"What are you going to do about it? Fire me? Fucken go ahead; I'm leaving in three weeks. I care even less about what you have to say to me now then I did before, if that's even possible."

"You better watch yourself, Brooks," John snarled, his face flushed. "I can make sure you never work in the WWE ever again. I'm tired of your attitude and -"

"Please, you can't even go to the bathroom without calling Vince to make sure it's OK," Punk sneered, his temper starting to get the better of him; he fucken hated his given name.

"And even if you do keep me from the WWE, do you think I'm going to fucken cry about it? Newsflash, jackass, the WWE isn't the only place where you can make a living wrestling any more; hell, this isn't even where everyone strives to get to any more.

"Fuck, Colt makes more on the indies selling merch then anyone in FCW. Not to mention what he's been pulling in with Wrestling Road Diaries and all the free publicity from Art of Wrestling. I told Vince the dumbest thing he ever did was bury Colt and then let him go."

"That's another thing," John hissed. "Mentioning Ring of Honor? Colt Cabana? Are you out of your fucken mind? Their indy press is going to go through the roof! Vince should never have let you keep -"

"First off, my name's not Cena and Vince doesn't tell me what to do with my private life," Punk spit out. "Second, if Vince had even attempted to tell me to do something so asinine and stupid as to stop talking to Colt, he would have been in for the surprise of his life when I punched him into next week.

"Colt means more to me then this company could ever fucken hope to. There's a lot I was willing to do for Vince, but cutting out the only person who's always been there for me was never one of them."

"So, it's true, then," John said slowly, a look of disgust crossing his face. "The rumors about you."

"It depends on what ones you're talking about," Punk said, raising an eyebrow at the look on the other man's face.

Punk knew exactly what rumors he was talking about; the ones that had started about him and Colt years ago, when they were still at the Domain. Although, since they were true, Punk could hardly call them rumors, and it wasn't exactly a big secret; in the indies, at least. Wrestling was a very tight knit community and you'd have better luck keeping the Holocaust a secret then who was fucking who -especially when they were together for as long as him and Cabana were.

Even most of the wrestlers in the WWE -the ones who actually were in the indies, anyway- knew about him and Colt. And he had turned down enough co-workers over the years for word to have spread about it. The only thing that surprised Punk was the fact that it had taken John this long to say something to him about it.

The phone rang suddenly, making John jump and Punk smirk. Glaring at him, John reached over and answered it, switching it onto speakerphone.

"Hello?"

"John," Vince barked, his voice hard. "Is he there?"

"Hey, Vince," Punk said casually, leaning back in his chair and resting his ankle on his knee. "How'd you like the segment?"

"God damn it, Brooks! What the hell is wrong with you?" Vince roared, loud enough that it made John wince. "What were you thinking? I swear, if you think I'm going to stand for this, you've got another thing coming!"

"I was thinking I finally wanted to cut a promo that didn't suck," Punk snapped, tired of the politics and stupidity that seemed to run rampant in the WWE.

"For once, I wanted to actually use more then a tenth of my brain and say what I know to be true. And if you don't like it, Vince, fucken fire me. I'm not putting up with your shit any more."

"You're suspended, you arrogant son of a bitch," Vince fumed. "I've put up with your shenanigans for fucken years and I've ignored certain things, but now I want you to -"

"Fuck you," Punk said, standing and glaring venomously enough that John flinched away from it.

"Don't you get it, Vince? _You can't tell me what to do. _I'm leaving here in three weeks; there's nothing you could ever give me to make me stay. I'm done with the bullshit and the fucken politics and the sheer stupidity. I hope for your fucken sake you do the smart thing and start giving the handful of decent wrestlers you have a push before they get fed up and bail on you.

"For six fucken years I've gone out there and killed myself for this god damn company, and for what? A pat on the head and a small handful of treats? So I can be mocked and treated like shit by almost every single higher up you have? So I can be shoved aside for some has been who can't even move in the ring for five minutes without sucking air like he's some mark who's never wrestled a day in his life?

"When you had me jobbing to Cena and Orton, that I could handle; at least they're here every fucken day like the rest of us. But when you start shoving us aside for some fucken hack that turned his back on wrestling to be a god damn movie star," Punk spit out, disgust written all over his face.

"And you passing over everyone else -_especially me_- was the last straw as far as I'm fucken concerned. You sealed your own fate, Vince. Your actions for the past six years led you to this point; if you don't like what I'm saying when I get on the mic or when I get in the ring, then suspend me. Or fire me.

"I don't fucken care any more."

Punk left the office, slamming the door behind him. In the hallway, he took a second to control himself; going off the handle and trashing the locker room or getting into a fight with someone on the way to the hotel wouldn't make him feel better. He might be semi infamous for his temper tantrums, but throwing things had never been his style and bitch fits were only fun when you had someone to bitch to.

He made his way to the locker room, peeling off his elbow pads on the way. Once Punk was inside, he stuffed the pads into his bag and started stripping out of the rest of his gear. He finished getting dressed, digging his phone out of his bag before he swung it over his shoulder and slipped his sneakers on.

Punk checked his messages, grinning when he saw Colt's name. He skimmed down, chuckling when he saw Hero's name but paused when he saw Alex's; Alex hardly ever texted him. Frowning, he opened Alex's message and then burst into laughter once he read it:

_**Nice one, Punkster; thought for a second Colt got hit by a truck when I heard he was trending. Next time, mention one of us. We're gonna need whatever we can get once we bail on Dixie. **_

Punk snickered again and dialed Colt's number. He couldn't wait to hear what Colt was going to say about this.


End file.
